


Trial by Fire

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prouvaire, Joly and Feuilly play with fire, and Bahorel has to wake up early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial by Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> This was originally posted on Tumblr for a prompt from PilferingApples.

It was seven-thirty in the morning. The sun was out, the birds were chirping, and Bahorel was in bed as nature intended, just coming out of a deep sleep.

He regarded the ceiling in some confusion. The previous night had been eventful. It took him a few moments to recollect what had happened, where he had been, where he was (in his own bedroom) and in what condition (hung over, judging from the throbbing in his head and the uncomfortable dryness of his mouth).

Why was he awake? He had only fallen into bed four hours ago. True, a yellow sliver of light had snuck through the crack between his curtains, but that should not have been enough to wake him.

The thumping on the door answered Bahorel’s question. “Who is it?” he bellowed. Well, croaked, at first, and then bellowed, once he cleared his throat.

"It’s Jehan," came the familiar voice, loud and yet vaguely apologetic.

"Go away," said Bahorel, turning over, burying his face in the mattress. He pulled the blanket over his head and the pillow over his ears. The tactic was effective. Bahorel could still hear Jehan pounding on the door, but the sound was muffled, rendered benign and almost peaceful. He soon sank back into sleep.

It felt like only a heartbeat later when he was awakened by Jehan’s voice right there, in his very room. 

Bahorel made a noise that was halfway between a curse and a question. Sticking his head out of his fortress of bedding, he saw Jehan, holding something that glinted in the sun.

“The gamin Navet helped me get in,” said Jehan, in response to Bahorel’s look at the glinting object. “He showed me how to pick your lock.” Bahorel blearily raised his hand to punch Jehan in the shoulder, but Jehan had already marched to the window and was drawing open the curtains with a vicious disregard for human decency.

“Damn you.” The light was offensively bright. Bahorel rolled out of bed, bruised his knees on the floor and, without getting up, flailed again in Jehan’s direction, this time managing to strike him in the side. “What on earth are you here for? Criminally entering my residence without permission—”

“Stop your grumbling. It’s an emergency. Feuilly needs help,” said Jehan, going to the chest of drawers and throwing clothes out in a haphazard fashion. “Where are those trousers I left here last week?”

“Did you say _Feuilly_?” This was a novelty. Courfeyrac having an emergency would be no surprise. Grantaire having an emergency was an ordinary weekly occurrence. Bossuet having an emergency was a natural condition of life; indeed, it would be shocking if, at any given moment, Bossuet had no emergency. But Feuilly—now that was something else. Feuilly was the soberest and most staid of them all save Enjolras. He did not wish to lose his job or, more importantly, his time for the studies that consumed his free hours. He did not risk emergencies except for their cause.

“Yes,” said Jehan. “He’s at Joly’s apartment, and he has no trousers.”

Bahorel blinked. “That’s rather their business, don’t you think? And hardly an emergency. Unconventional, to be sure, and perhaps Bossuet and Musichetta may feel some jealousy over it, but—”

“Oh, do shut up. Joly was talking to Feuilly about flame tests and showing him the different colors made by the flames from substances with zinc, copper and iron, and it was really very beautiful with the different colors, you know, I can’t imagine why all scientists aren’t poets and painters, or vice versa. Feuilly was inspired to put colored flames in a row to make a tricolor, and then to do the same with Poland’s colors—”

“Which are…”

“Red and white,” said Jehan. “And then he did the Greek flag with its alternating stripes, which was a bit more complicated. We all became so absorbed that we didn’t notice Joly’s landlord knocking on the door and coming in, as Joly had left it open.”

Bahorel rubbed his forehead. “And then Feuilly took off his trousers and flung them out the window?”

“No. The landlord screamed in fright at the sight of all the flames, probably thinking he had a mad arsonist for a tenant. And then Feuilly shouted and dropped the tray of crystals he was holding, and as they fell they sprinkled all over his trousers. And then Joly started screaming about how Feuilly had to take his trousers off immediately because the crystals—well, to be honest, I’m not sure of this part, but Joly said it was dangerous to have them in close contact with skin or clothing. I kept trying to calm him down and make him talk sense—”

“You? Tried to calm someone down?”

“—and then, when all was said and done, Feuilly took off his trousers and was standing there pulling his shirt-tails as low as they would go, and Joly and the landlord were still screaming at each other.”

“It is not yet eight o’clock in the morning,” Bahorel said. “Why were Joly and Feuilly playing with chemicals at the crack of dawn?”

“Feuilly could only do it before work,” said Jehan. “Which brings me to the problem. Feuilly has to be at work in forty minutes. He has no trousers, being forbidden to wear the contaminated ones, and Joly’s spare trousers are much too big for him. I know I left a pair of mine here that one night, and mine should do—”

Bahorel snorted. “They’ll do for not falling down from his waist, but you’re a head taller than him. He’ll be dragging around in the dirt. And why couldn’t you go to your own godforsaken apartment for trousers?”

“You live much closer, and you know it. Time is of the essence here.”

By now, two-thirds of Bahorel’s clothes were on the floor, including some of his favorite waistcoats, shirts, cravats and trousers. Bahorel had every desire to help Feuilly, but this was a hard sacrifice to make even so. He hauled himself over to the chest of drawers, shoved Jehan away rudely, and pulled out the pair of trousers Jehan had left after that particularly amusing evening. 

“Here,” said Bahorel. “Take it and begone.” Jehan hesitated, and Bahorel groaned. “What haven’t you told me?”

“Joly’s landlord is threatening to evict him,” Jehan said. “Joly made up some bluster about how it would be illegal to do so. The landlord was dubious, but evidently had no idea whether it was true or not—his wife handles all the affairs, and she’s out of the city visiting her mother. I said…well. I said I would bring my lawyer friend to explain it to him.”

Bahorel suddenly experienced a painful moment of illumination. “Oh, no.”

“It will be easy. I’ve already smoothed things over a bit. I got Joly to promise to stop playing with fire in his apartment, and…”

“Of course it will be easy to pretend to be a lawyer,” said Bahorel, “much like it would be easy to pretend to be an ass. One need only bray, and occasionally kick. The issue is not the difficulty, it is the shame! Why couldn’t you just say you were a lawyer?”

Bahorel did not actually need an answer to that question, given that Jehan was dressed with his customary aggressive shabbiness. He did not look like a lawyer. He looked like someone who would first murder you and then write a poem about it.

“Get dressed and look respectable and let us get going,” said Jehan, ignoring Bahorel’s last gasps of defiance. “It’s a small price to pay for friendship, isn’t it?”


End file.
